


They fill you with the faults they had/And add some extra, just for you.

by PepperCat



Series: The Secret History of Hartley Rathaway [1]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Gen, Not beta-read, canon-compatible, plot-light or possibly -nonexistent, unhealthy family relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 20:56:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6129817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperCat/pseuds/PepperCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hartley Rathaway wasn't planning to get in touch with his parents. Just checking to see that they hadn't changed. All the rest was due to an accident of timing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They fill you with the faults they had/And add some extra, just for you.

Hartley is not hoping; that is a silly course of action. He's researching. Confirming that he's made a reasonable plan.

It's just that his parents aren't exactly rational in some regards, and Hartley's checking to make sure he hasn't overlooked any resources that might be available to him. People who aren't rational might unexpectedly change their minds. It'd be laziness to not recognize a potential variable.

For this he's managed to sneak onto the airfield in the middle of the night, and is waiting, shivering a little, for the Rathaway plane to come in. He's not planning to actually _talk_ to them, but he knows Ethan will mention that he called.

The scream of the engines dies and the plane wheels stop grinding over the tarmac. There's the soft sound of glossily engineered parts working in concert as the engines exhale softly, a door opening, steps unfolding.

_Pleasant flight, Mrs. Rathaway?_

_Yes, thank you._

The second thing to come out of the plane is not his father, but a painting; red and white at this distance, nothing special. Then his father finishes handing it off, giving unnecessary directions. _Careful please, it's worth a fortune._ As if anyone would dare to be less than careful with something Osgood Rathaway handed them.

He wonders if he's misjudged. What if his call doesn't come up until they're in the car? But Ethan clears his throat as they start towards the car. _Sir._ His voice is low and cautious. _Your son. Hartley. He called again._

It's really getting chilly out here. When he heard Ethan say _again_ , the night air felt so cold against his face Hartley could almost imagine he was turning red. Ridiculous. He just needed to make sure he could test their reaction, it's irrelevant that he'd called before now, and before that, and again before that--

His father's looking disdainful. His mother's looking at his father. There's a beat of lesser noise, the crunch of elegant shoes on clean pavement (only the faintest trace of grit under soles), the hush of the night air brushing against itself like silk, the rolling purr of their waiting car.

_We don't have a son anymore._

He was not waiting to hear anything different. He was not expecting his father to say anything different. He was not expecting his mother to object.

Obviously. Obviously.

Hartley's gulping in air and somewhere there's a faint mechanical whine added to the tapestry of noise and he's thinking, suddenly, of the resonant frequency of wood and gesso and what he could do to the painting from here; turn it into splinters, tatters of oil-slicked canvas, have it burst apart. _Worth a fortune._ He imagines his father's face stiffening before it goes red, his mother's hand covering her mouth in shock and horror.

It probably won't be that dramatic. He only ever got that reaction from them once. But it's a satisfying image, and he's lifting his hands (which are only shaking from the unexpected weight of the gloves) and calibrating the distance when there's a flare of blue light and--

It's not quiet. It's never quiet anymore. But for a second it's quiet _er_ , with the hush and draw of the air's ceaseless movement frozen under the blue lick of fire. And then there's shocked screaming, high and piping and offended, and an astonishingly smug voice clarions out " _ **Some** one better call 911._"

Hartley's holding his breath.

He's never seen anyone dare to be so loud around his parents.

Ethan has thrown himself in front of the Rathaways. Hartley supposes that if you buy someone's loyalty for long enough, they learn new and impractical habits. His parents are not quite huddling, but they are crouching down, they are trying to look smaller, and the man in the blue parka is grinning as he strides forward, arms thrown wide.

It's bombastic. Impractical. It's... _self-indulgent_ , and Hartley doesn't know exactly what he's feeling. It's not bitter enough to be jealousy, and he can't quite summon up his usual disdain for theatrics in the face of the man's grin.

He doesn't leave--obviously, if nothing else, he doesn't really want to see Ethan get shot. Or his parents. Not really. Not by some grandstanding-- alright, possibly not an idiot given the gadget he's somehow gotten his hands on--

On the other hand, Hartley can hear the yodelling swipe of sirens fast approaching, and the man doesn't seem thrown by that at all, so idiocy might be back on the table. He wonders if the Flash will show up as well; the Rathaways are certainly important enough to warrant that.

The painting's been set down against the car as his mother is rushed off to whatever counts for safety around here. The police have come out with a collection of shields that look like something Ramon might have come up with, a tacky pattern of brassy tape running through the plexiglas, and when they yell _Freeze!_ the man in the blue parka fires his gun again, three times, and the blue and silencing light flares and splurts harmlessly into nothing against the lacing on the shields.

It's time for him to leave. The police haven't noticed him yet, his parents _certainly_ haven't, and Hartley doesn't feel like being mistaken for the blue man's lookout. Intriguing as the grin was, his mood seems to have taken a dive with the introduction of the police's shields, and he guesses the man won't be in quite as good a mood in cuffs. And all jokes aside, Hartley does not want to end up in lockup. His plan is to face off against the Flash on his own schedule, not deal with a bunch of uniformed louts while collecting data.

The man turns around and yells _"Mick!"_ and Hartley realizes he's been creeping closer. Fortunately everyone's attention appears to be focussed on the-- the--

_"Why do they call you people the heat? **I'm** the heat!"_

\--the begoggled pyromaniacal ox who has managed to set the pavement under the police _on fire._

He can hear a man screaming, and the flames chewing at the air, and the air itself is sizzling with a kind of static hiss. At this point, he has gotten the knowledge he came for and common sense needs must trump curiousity, since the situation is getting just a _bit_ too hectic for his health. He might help if he could--the sight of his father cringing behind Ethan is going to stay with him for a while--but he doesn't know if the blue man has someone else waiting in the wings or what the police might do in this situation. Too many variables, insufficiently prepared for; he didn't come to play, certainly not on a flaming chessboard.

Self-preservation drags him off, and if he's finding himself warmed by the memory of his parents' reaction-- well, there's a certain satisfaction in seeing them brought low, even in such a tiny way.

**Author's Note:**

> I figured that, if Hartley's hearing is meta-acute, the cold gun would actually make things quieter in a way that he could notice. I wasn't sure what to do with that, but then I was rewatching S1 of the Flash, and I noticed that it was Hartley's parents who had their painting stolen during Revenge of the Rogues. And I noticed the mention of the fact that Hartley had called them again, and I wondered why he'd kept trying, and I started trying to figure out what he'd think of the whole scene.
> 
> The title is from Philip Larkin's "This Be The Verse", which is a rather bitter poem; you can find it [here](http://www.artofeurope.com/larkin/lar2.htm).


End file.
